


Steeping

by flecksofpoppy



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Gen, Prompt Fic, Shinigami Scribblings, making up for all the recent whimsical sap, obnoxious flower metaphors, sobbing quietly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-03
Updated: 2014-04-03
Packaged: 2018-01-18 00:00:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1407505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flecksofpoppy/pseuds/flecksofpoppy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the Shinigami Scribblings prompt "new beginnings."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Steeping

Alan balances his teaspoon on the white saucer in front of him, spoon-side-down, watching raw, brown sugar melt into a hot swirl of peppermint tea.

“They’ve made special arrangements,” he says, staring down as if looking into a reflecting pool.

He’s sitting in the canteen for the afternoon meal, and it’s relatively quiet. His voice is quiet, too. Alan’s never been particularly showy with his more important statements—which this one is—but he’s even more hushed than usual.

“I don’t think it should be too much trouble when it happens, but I wanted to warn you.” He raises his eyes from the tea very slightly, but still doesn’t look up, his hand curling around the hot teacup. “Since you were my mentor, I thought you’d like to know.”

He carefully lifts the cup to his lips, not wanting to disturb the spoon he’s so precisely balanced on the edge of the saucer. The liquid burns down his throat, not quite hot enough now to scald, but a little more heated than he’d like.

“I wanted to tell you myself, before I become too ill to keep it a secret anymore.”

He sets the cup down, takes in a deep breath, and closes his eyes. There’s a red tulip bloom pinned to his jacket in honor of the first day of spring. He’s gotten a few odd looks, but given the current and rapidly declining circumstances, Alan has decided, for once, to literally wear his heart on his sleeve; or flower, as it may be.

“So there it is,” he concludes. “Now you know.

He sits quietly, and nothing changes. The staff come in and out amidst the white noise of conversation continues, the clanking of dishes and the click of cutlery against porcelain, the tinkling of the cash register, until finally he hears a familiar voice coming from the tray line.

He takes another breath, stands up, raises his eyes to look straight ahead, and his voice carries clear and self-assured as he speaks.

“Eric,” he says, motioning to the empty chair across from him, “have a minute? I need to talk to you.”


End file.
